


A Clockwork Heart

by aprettystrangeao3



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Body Horror, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ironstrange Midsummer Big Bang, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Steampunk, Victorian Science Fiction, cyborg/android themes, ironstrangebigbang, listen i have a cyborg kink and im not afraid to use it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 10:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15604620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprettystrangeao3/pseuds/aprettystrangeao3
Summary: Doctor Stephen Strange, expert physician and rumored miracle-worker, just wants to eat his poorly-made biscuits and do his research in his cozy library in his empty home in the grey outskirts of Victorian New York. But his life suddenly changes, for better or worse, when a missing man arrives half-dead at his doorstep. What will he manage to uncover about his newest patient-- and what could he uncover about himself in the process?





	1. A Stranger Arrives

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Ironstrange Midsummer Big Bang 2018, put on by the lovely folks over at @ironstrangehq on tumblr! Thank you to them for organizing the event, and thank you to my beta reader @reptans (also on tumblr!). Lastly, a huge outpouring of love and thanks to @aph-memepan on tumblr, who created the beautiful artwork for this fic-- go check them out!

**Rain lashed angrily against the glass of the diamond-paned windows, each howling gust of wind pounding in time to the ache in Stephen Strange’s head.**

The rainstorm had been raging for hours now, leaving him next to no silence or solitude in which to work peacefully. His state-of-the-art fountain pen lay abandoned in a puddle of his signature blue ink, the stain slowly spreading its fingers across what had been a pile of fresh parchment an hour ago. A waste, he knew. But there was no way the doctor could concentrate with crack of thunder and spasms of lightning outside. Dozens of letters to read and forms to pen and prescriptions to write lay scattered across the table, all waiting, all untouched.

Perhaps it was just time for some tea.

A sheaf of parchment skittered across his desk as Stephen stood up, muttering grumpily as the candle he’d been attempting to work by sputtered in the sudden gust of wind. Mph. He must have left the window open. _Christ, where was his head today?_ He really had to stop working those long hours in the hospital, on top of the endless nights of study and research. Too much to do, so little time to save his numerous patients.

Stephen’s hands trembled with fatigue and hunger as he stumbled over to the window, the left pane of which hung ajar by a few inches. He slammed it shut with a note of finality, giving the storm outside one last baleful glare before turning on his heel and marching down the hall towards his kitchen.

The hall was damp and dark and poorly lit, merely a highway from one room to the next. Like the rest of his cavernous (and woefully empty) Victorian, it wasn’t much to boast about; sure, it was a short while away from the hospital, and conveniently close to the railroad station, but the vast space it took up always felt so… absent of warmth. And the floors always creaked a little, the ceilings created a bit of a gloomy air, and the kitchen was barely big enough to fit the cast-iron stove in the corner. Stephen’s research and surgery partner, Wong, liked to joke that Stephen had traded his kitchen for his massive library at the end of the hall-- which was half true, but he didn’t care. Books and comfortable armchairs were the only things that felt like home these days.

Eager to get back to his favorite chair back in the library, Strange stoked the coals underneath the stove, watching them glow back to life with the same childlike wonder he reserved only for the small things in life. The dim lighting of the kitchen seemed to fade as he allowed himself to tune out the world around him, his hands automatically going through the comforting, familiar motions of making tea. Fill the blackened kettle with water, set it on the stove, grab the best box of tea from the shelf. _No, not that one. Ah, that one!_ Right. Grab the teacup, set it out, measure the tea, grab the kettle-- _ouch! Not without a cloth!_ Grab the kettle with a cloth, pour the tea. No sugar. Splash of milk. Grab a biscuit or two to settle a (now growling) stomach. Ah, there.

Satisfied, Stephen took a sip of tea, cradling the cup and biscuits in his hands as he wandered back out of the kitchen in his slippers. The standing grandfather clock at the other end of the hall ticked away quietly, elegantly engraved hands pointing to a time close to midnight. Stephen huffed to himself as he ducked back into the library, scowling down at his pocket and fishing around for his precariously strung pocket watch to make sure that the hour was correct.

It was, of course, particular as he was about keeping the right time.

Stephen flipped the intricate, eye shaped pocket watch shut, grumbling. Well, there was no sense in going to bed now that he was awake-- might as well drink his tea and read the newspaper from this morning he hadn’t yet had the chance to look over. Perhaps someone had left an ad requiring his help or services there, as they were oft to do. It was unbelievable how many unique accidents the people of New York could get themselves into.

Stephen set his teacup down on his desk and settled himself back into his favorite faded red armchair. Sheets of parchment went spiraling across the wooden table as the doctor clumsily searched for his folded newspaper with his left hand, taking a bite of his biscuit with the other. Hm, he’d managed to make them too dry this time. And without nearly enough nutmeg. He’d have to ask Christine for her infamous recipe next time he saw her after a shift in her wing of the hospital.

Eventually his hand landed on the ink-stained newspaper buried beneath a stack of worn letters, and Strange tucked his legs underneath himself so he could curl up to read it. He thumbed through the paper idly, checking the wanted section at the back first. Nothing new there that needed his attention. Stephen chewed on his biscuit thoughtfully as he flipped the page over, searching for a worthy headline or tidbit or anything else of interest. There was an paragraph on page three concerning a girl who’d been injured in a carriage accident; her family thought she may never walk again. Stephen reached for his pen, which lay abandoned in his inkwell now, and idly circled the short article. Perhaps he’d look into the case when he had some spare time. A dark look crossed his face when he realized the next moment of free time he’d probably have was the next evening he was awake at this sort of hour. That couldn’t possibly be a healthy way to live.

Strange shook his head, as if to shake away his thoughts, and flipped the newspaper back to the front page. The cover story of the morning had been an update to a story he vaguely remembered from a few months back-- something about an inventor who’d vanished? Stephen pulled the paper closer to his face, squinting to read the article in the dim light of his candle.

> _December 6, 1886 -- Today marks the fifth month that mysterious and celebrated inventor, mechanic, and roboticist Anthony Stark (popularly known by his alias ‘Edward St. Amour’) has been reported missing. Stark’s mansion just outside of the city was reportedly broken into the night of July 5th, and Stark himself was found to be missing from the premises. After several weeks with no sign or word from Stark, the department dubbed him a missing person. There have been no leads or clues about Mr. Stark’s whereabouts or condition, even after these many months, but there have been rumors concerning anything from an unexpected vacation to the south of France to a revenge plot carried out by a rival. We encourage everyone to keep sharp-- please report any tips, sightings, or information you might have to us at our office on Tenth Street. In the meantime, if you’d like to see some of Mr. Stark’s most infamous automatons and machines, a variety of his work is on display in the Downtown Gallery. [Read more on page 2 --- >]_

Stephen rolled his eyes. Everyone who was anyone knew about Stark; he certainly didn’t keep himself quiet. He was flashy, loud, and enjoyed flaunting his intricate inventions and machines at public events and fairs. Stephen had never met the man, nor seen too many good photographs of him, but he couldn’t help but picture a sort of Mad Hatter character in his head whenever the roboticist was brought up in conversation-- which was not helped by the occasional rumor that Stark had a penchant for top hats.

All thoughts of Anthony Stark bled from his mind as Stephen’s gaze wandered down the rest of the page, catching on a mention of his own name in the lower right corner. He drew in a sharp breath as he read and reread over the short article, scowl deepening with each flicker of his eyes.

> _Reports have come from New York’s own hospital of yet another seemingly hopeless case cured by miracle worker Doctor Stephen Strange. Eliza Perkins, 28, suffered a fall from her horse last month and suffered severe trauma to the head and neck. Strange, 31, took on the case three weeks ago. And today, Miss Perkins walked out of her hospital room, head held high, completely back to normal._  
>  _“I just don’t know,” Miss Perkins tells us. “It was as if Mr. Strange has some sort of magic! I must admit, I have little memory of my accident, but several doctors confirmed earlier today that I’d been completely stabilized and was free to go! Whatever talents Mr. Strange has, he’s certainly putting them to good use here in New York.”_  
>  _We must agree; out of Doctor Strange’s lengthy list of past patients, not a single one has been lost, and all have been healed-- an unheard of feat! While many laud this as simply a medical miracle, others are more skeptical._  
>  _“It’s odd,” Mr. Perkins, Sr., stated earlier today after visiting with his daughter Eliza. “I’m not sure I trust the man. While I’m certainly glad Eliza is healed and happy, how on Earth was she able to recover so well in his care when all other physicians failed? Unusual to be sure of. Magical, most definitely.”_  
>  _Do you have a story or opinion concerning Doctor Strange? Send us a letter at our... [continued on page 4]_

As soon as he reached the end of the article, Stephen threw the paper back onto the desk with a noise of disgusted disapproval. There had been rumors about him circulating for years— ever since he saved his first life, performed his first medical miracle, healed what could never heal, time and time again. And, as medieval as it was, a popular theory was that he was some sort of… witch doctor? Cleric? Sorcerer?

Stephen curled his hands into fists as he thought about the whispers that followed him through the streets of New York, suddenly anxious. They weren’t… wrong, necessarily, even though they sounded silly. He’d always been mysteriously talented with healing. And every patient he had just seemed to… heal themselves under his steady hands. No, he healed them. Somehow. And he had no idea how he did it. But he owed it to the hurt and innocent and broken to do as much as he could for them, and it fueled the drive in him for…selflessness? Goodness? Who knew. And yet, it scared him almost as much as it scared the poor souls who ran the daily newspaper, and he was beginning to wonder if it would be better to quietly retire from the public eye and simply slip away from the medical world so that—

_BANG._

Stephen jerked upwards at the sound, letting out a string of senseless curses as his knee hit the edge of his desk. His teacup wobbled precariously, sloshing tea across the last of his untouched parchment as the doctor hurriedly tried to steady the table and himself.

Thump. BANG.

What in heaven’s name?

The sounds echoed down the hallway as Stephen cautiously ducked out of the library. Oh, hell. They were coming from the door. Someone knocking. Heavily, certainly. Harshly. And ...desperately?

Strange raised his hands into the air, stupidly realizing a moment later that he was holding his pen out in front of him. Oh, right, as if that were some kind of brilliant self-defense. Scoffing at himself, he tucked the pen into his pocket, hands trembling with fear he’d never admit to.

“Hello?”

Silence. Lightning crackled somewhere outside. And then, on cue with the thunder— BANG.

Strange edged down the hall, drawing in a deep breath as he glanced around. Open the door? Fetch the police? Grab a knife? Run?

Lightning crackled again as Stephen took another step forwards, almost wishing he had his pen back in his hand for confidence.

“Who’s there?”

Silence.

Then,

“Help... please...”

With a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, Strange shakily undid the deadbolt on the door. The hinges creaked softly, a small sliver of moonlight spilling into the entryway as the doctor peered out through the cracked-open door.

A man lay crumpled on the porch step, his fist raised dejectedly, as if to try banging on the door again. His arm wavered as he stretched his hand out towards the face of Stephen Strange above him, as if desperately trying to grasp at his alarmed expression.

“Please,” he whispered again, voice hoarse and craggy as the ocean cliffs so many miles away.

“Sir--!” Stephen immediately threw the door open, his night robe swirling around his legs. “Sir, can you--”

“N-need help--,” he man grunted, cutting him off with a shuttering, ragged breath. “He… elp…”

Stephen steeled himself, his training as a doctor overtaking his baffled shock. Action now, process later. Put the patient first.

“Alright. Stay calm.” Strange bent down to hook his arms underneath the man’s limp body, giving him a gentle tug upwards. “Can you stand?”

“Help… with… help…”

Stephen grunted, hauling the man to his feet with a considerable amount of effort. He was nothing but dead weight and was utterly soaked down to the bone, his rain-drenched tatters seeming to drag him down towards the earth. The man swayed dangerously on his feet, head lolling as he pawed at a crude eyepatch placed over the left side of his face, forcing Stephen to wrap both arms around him to make sure he didn’t fall over.

“Can you hear me?” he asked clearly, reaching one hand up to support the man’s neck. “Can you tell me what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Hhhh, hhhad aa…” the man mumbled, words too slurred to make out. “Accccc... accideeen’… ‘m bl… bleeding…”

With a sudden start of horror, Stephen realized that water wasn’t the only thing soaking the man’s tattered excuse for clothing.

“Okay. Keep breathing. Hold onto me, I’ll take you inside.”

“Mmmmmhm… mnnn…” the stranger slurred, attempting to put one foot in front of the other as Stephen hauled him towards the door.

“Do you have a name?” Strange asked, hoping to keep the wounded man awake and alert while he helped him to the only guest room in the house.

“Y-- yes,” the man whispered, his head drooping. His eyelids fluttered dangerously. One hand reached up to cling desperately at Stephen’s robe, the grip surprisingly firm. “It… isss Edward.”


	2. Edward St. Amour

**Consciousness is such a feeble, human thing, Edward reflected as he drifted in and out of darkness.**

He vaguely registered being carried down a dim hallway and through another doorway before his consciousness faded out again and again, the effort of trying to stand and move far too much for his pounding head. At least this place was pretty. So dim, but so dry. And safe. It felt warm and safe, what a home should feel like. _A… home… did he have one any longer…?_

The next thing he knew he was lying on a threadbare mattress, and Stephen Strange’s face was hovering over him. _Strange. Stephen. I heard the stories. I saw your name. I searched for you. I found you. I found…_

“Can you hear me?” The doctor’s voice sounded as thick and sweet as honey as he gave Edward's shoulder a careful shake, his words oozing through the dark air. “Mister...?”

“Y-yes,” he tried to whisper, his lips defying his wishes for them to form sound.

“Alright. I need to get your shirt off so I can examine you fully. Just lie still, alright?” A gentle hand, a blissfully soft touch, the barest whisper of fingers graced Edward’s tattered shirt buttons, and he nearly bolted upright.

“No!” he gasped, clutching feverishly at his chest. “N-no, not-- let me esss… expla…” His head lolled forwards as his vision threatened to abandon him to the void of darkness again.

“Ah! Shh, stay still. That’s it, lie back down,” Strange encouraged him from miles and miles away, his pale face a beacon in the fuzzy twilight. “You probably have some head trauma, I need you to stay still.”

“Don’.... don’... not my shirt,” Edward mumbled feebly.

There was a beat of silence.

“Alright,” Strange said simply. Edward swore he could see the bemusement swimming around his head, and wished he could simply talk, simply explain away the doctor’s confusion. It would all make sense. He could make it make sense. He needed it to… make sense… he found… he found him, after all…

“Hey, stay with me--!”

 

* * *

 

When Edward awoke again, the earliest hint of morning light was beginning to color the room. Stephen Strange was perched in a chair next to him, his face wan and pale.

“You’re awake,” he murmured simply, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he heaved a sigh. There was an air about him that suggested the doctor hadn’t slept for a single moment that night-- further proven by the dark circles under his eyes-- which were visible even lying there on the bed.

“Am I?” Edward mumbled, fascinated by the bruise-like color around Stephen’s eyes.

Stephen nodded. “Yes, though you were passing in and out of consciousness for a few hours.” He bent over Edward, his hands busy, fluttering as light and quick as the butterflies he used to find in his garden. “I didn’t undress you, but I did clean you up as best as I could otherwise,” the doctor added, hands pausing over a gauze bandage on Edward’s arm. “You were… absolutely covered in burns and bruises and lacerations. I think your wrist might have a slight fracture as well, given the swelling.”

“Oh.”

Strange looked as though he wanted to say more, desperate to spill more words and sounds from his lips, but Edward’s head was spinning again and the doctor went quiet. He should say something, thank him; he felt guilty, and sorry for not being able to say and do more. If only he could explain everything--

“...th… thank you, f-for…”

“Sh, Edward, it’s quite alright.”

 

* * *

 

The next time Edward awoke, the afternoon sunlight was streaming through the lone window on the far wall. Doctor Strange’s chair was empty, though as his ears adjusted to being conscious again, he could hear faint footsteps from down the hall. Oh. He must still be nearby.

Edward blinked slowly, his gaze drifting across the wood-beam ceiling and down the wall, marveling in his ability to focus on things again. At least his vision wasn’t swimming as severely as it had been a few hours ago. Had it been a few hours by now? A day? A week? The sunlight meant nothing, the more he thought about it.

“Doctor Strange?” he croaked, testing his voice. It was still as broken as it had been for months now. Months…? Was that right? It felt like it had been years.

The footsteps down the hall stilled, then grew quicker as they approached the spare bedroom. A moment later Strange’s face appeared in the doorway.

“You’re awake again,” he said simply, brushing his hands against his plain undershirt and setting something Edward couldn’t see on the bedside table.

“I appear to be.”

“...and you have some snark,” Stephen continued idly, raising an eyebrow as he sat back down in his bedside chair.

Edward grunted, a flicker of his old self coming back to him. “What time is it? What day?”

“It’s currently half past four, Wednesday afternoon. It’s been about a day and a half since you showed up at my door.”

“I wasn’t out for long then?”

“Not at all. At least, not a long time for someone healing from head trauma. How are you feeling?”

“My... head hurts less,” Edward murmured. He had to admit, the pain had lessened significantly. He looked sideways at the doctor through bleary eyes, wondering. Maybe all the rumors about him were right. He curiously rubbed at the side of his temple, his hand exploring over his head-- feeling over his eyepatch, the bruises on his cheek, the uneven and grown-out hair-- all of it. Nothing different. Everything accounted for. “What did you do to me?”

Strange opened his mouth slightly, clearly taken aback. “What did I… do to you?”

“That was the question I asked.”

Stephen merely squinted at Edward suspiciously, baffled.

“I didn’t _do_ anything to you. I cleaned you up, bandaged what injuries I could, put a salve on your burns, and set your wrist. I could feel a slight fracture-- nothing too significant, should heal soon.”

Edward raised his free hand, squinting at the splint that covered his wrist and the bandages that wound up his arm.

“You didn’t do anything to my head?”

“I did not.”

“I… but my head…” Edward’s brow furrowed. “It still aches, but… it feels… far better than it did.”

Stephen’s lips pressed themselves into a thin line as the doctor crossed his arms over his chest, as if to defend himself from his patient’s invisible accusations. “My patients tend to heal fast,” he offered simply.

There was a moment of tense silence as Edward studied Stephen, his lone brown eye full of detached calculation. The look of someone sharp, Stephen reflected.

“Ah.”

“I think perhaps a better question,” Strange said, leaning forward as he smoothly changed topics, “is, how is it you know my name?”

“Who doesn’t? Your name’s been in the papers for years.”

“But not my face.”

“So?”

“So,” Stephen continued patiently, “how do you know me? How is it you came to my doorstep calling for my help?”

“...I found your address in... a newspaper. In an ad for your medical services.”

“And?”

Edward’s face was set in a stubborn, stone grimace.

“Why not a hospital?” Stephen pressed, gripping the edge of the bed. “I can take you to one, now that you’re alert again. I wasn’t eager to move you whilst you were unconscious, but I could easily call a carriage to bring you to my place of work. Unless…” Stephen’s eyes narrowed, their cucumber-green color almost luminescent against his skin. “...perhaps you’re on the run? Hiding from someone? Hm? Is that why you came directly to me instead of somewhere else?”

The man in bed glared up at the ceiling, but his expression softened by the slightest degree. “No. That’s not… please, don’t,” he whispered, rubbing at his temples.

“No? Edward, if that’s your name, I’m growing wary. If your wounds are more than you’re letting on, if there’s another issue, I need to transfer--”

“Please. Just. If-- let me--.” Edward covered his face with his hands, his head spinning again, feeling dizzy at the sudden amount of chatter.

Strange leaned back, remembering himself, his expression softening signifigantly. “I’m sorry. I don’t...”

There was a soft pause, then a grunt, and the doctor pushed himself to his feet instead of continuing with his thought. “Here,” he murmured, and Edward could hear his the floorboards creak as the doctor shifted his weight across the floor to reach the bedside table. The mattress sagged slightly as Strange leaned over his bed, and suddenly something warm was being pressed into his good hand.

Edward managed to look up, squinting at the mug Stephen was holding to his hands.

“Is this…” he peered into the mug, giving it a cautious sniff. “...tea?”

“Yes. It should help with the pain.”

“I’m no doctor,” Edward mumbled, trying to peer closer into the murky cup with his good eye. “But I figured you’d give me some. Y’know. Painkillers. Instead.”

“There’s a natural type of pain reliever in the tea,” Strange said patiently.

“But this is… just tea.”

“And?”

“And… how’s that supposed to help me?”

“You said it yourself,” Strange murmured, his mouth quirking up into a half-smile. “Your head’s feeling better already.”

A small smile lit up Edward's face as he gave in and took a long sip of tea. Doctor Strange simply watched him nearly drain the mug, fixing him with an almost uncomfortably precise stare. Edward flinched slightly under it as he glanced up over the rim of his drink, feeling as if he were an insect in the clutches of a rather suspicious spider.

“Uh…” he mumbled after a moment, fingers tapping on his mug. “I’m… I promise you, I’m not some sort of criminal. I swear by the heavens above.”

“I figured I would have seen your face in a paper or on a poster around town, if you were. I’ve already checked with local law enforcement, and I know better than to let a potential suspect into my home, Edward. That’s not what concerns me.”

“...no?”

“No.”

Edward squirmed slightly under Strange’s gaze, suddenly feeling sorry for what he was about to say.

“I… alright, let me apologize. My name isn’t truly Edward.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Do you suspect my real identity?” Edward challenged, testing the waters.

Strange tilted his head slightly to the side, a mysterious sort of look on his face. “I have my suspicions. Care to confirm or deny?”

Edward hesitated for a moment. “It’s… my real name… is Anthony Stark.”

One of Stephen’s eyebrows shot up, but if he was surprised otherwise, he didn’t show it.

Edward-- no, Anthony-- leaned forwards, a look of sudden anxiety in his eyes. “You understand why I might have wanted to keep my identity secret? Do you suspect why… why I…”

“Relax, Mister Stark. Relax. I just wanted an answer from you.” Stephen leaned forwards to meet Anthony, his expression softening. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, and I won’t pry until I absolutely need to. I have a feeling that it’s… a lot. But moreover, your identity is safe with me.”

Anthony blinked, trying to process that. “You’re… not going to out me to the public?”

The same mysterious smile that had quirked up the corners of Stange’s mouth a moment ago returned. “No. That would be… a violation on so very many levels.” The doctor gave Anthony’s bandaged wrist a gentle pat. “You’re safe in my home.”

“Th… thank you.”

“Of course, Anthony.”


	3. Oddities

**Taking in a wounded, missing person was proving to be more cumbersome than Doctor Strange had predicted.**

And not that he’d expected to after only a week of caring for the man, but Stephen couldn’t even begin to figure his resident patient out.

Strange could see where a lot of the stories and rumors about him came from; though he slept almost all day, when he was awake Anthony tended to be snarky and stubborn and fidgety and oh-so-painfully curious about everything. He asked incessant questions about every medical tool and device he owned, and what he was doing, and how he did it. He loved reading through any books Stephen had on hand; the doctor was quite convinced that once Stark could get out of bed for himself, he was going to read through his entire library in no time. Which wasn’t the least bit a problem-- Stephen was happy to share his books. But since he’d decided to take plenty of time off of working in the hospital to care for Anthony personally, it was getting to be just a bit like looking after a curious, fidgety, bed-bound child all day long.

But then again, there were times when Anthony’s cheeky facade melted away without warning, eclipsed by an entirely different, more vulnerable side. With any mention of the past few months, or himself, or anything remotely personal (his eyepatch, which Stephen didn’t remember seeing in any of his grainy newspaper pictures, or why he wouldn’t take his clothes off-- even to clean up or change-- or how he got hurt, and so on), he closed himself off. Became distant and quiet and reflective, and refused to answer anything. In these moments Stark’s shoulders seemed to weigh heavy with an air of loss and sadness and confusion, perhaps a touch of remorse. And without knowing what had happened to the inventor-turned patient, Strange couldn’t seem to do a damn thing about it.

That is, not to mention the other oddities that seemed to surround Anthony. Beyond, of course, trying to conceal his identity, there sure were a lot of other… mysterious quirks about the man.

On Thursday evening Stephen had patiently been helping Stark out of bed when his right leg hit the side of the mattress frame. The doctor nearly dropped Anthony in surprise when, instead of a soft thump and the sound of cursing, there was a harsh CLANG of metal on metal and a sharp intake of breath from the man halfway out of bed.

“What… in heaven’s name… was--”

“Doctor Strange, I can-- it’s… a... prosthetic. Prosthetic lower leg. Metal one. Workplace accidents, you know.”

“Really?” Stephen squinted curiously, looking Anthony up and down.. “Isn’t that a bit bulky? Would you like to remove it for the time being?”

“Nope.”

“Are you… sure? May I examine it? If you’ve been wearing it this whole time, I should make sure the--”

“Nope.”

“Mister Stark… you know what, alright. Let’s just get you out of bed.”

Stephen had asked about Anthony’s eyepatch too-- he’d offered to get him a better, cleaner one (‘that old dirty one can’t be good for an empty eye socket’), but his offer had been politely shot down. He’d asked why he never removed it to sleep, even if it would be more comfortable, but only gotten a light reply (‘what, didn’t you hear that story about the man in Ohio who slept without his eyepatch?’ ‘uh... no, can’t say I have.’ ‘Ah. It’s rather gross.’) And if Stephen asked at all about Anthony’s previous whereabouts or story, he tended to go very quiet and pretend he hadn’t heard.

Perhaps it was time for a new tactic.

By Saturday morning, half past ten to be exact, Anthony Stark was finally able to sit up in bed and chat and eat normally. And he was a mess, absolutely needed a bath, and Stephen was getting fed up by this mystery.

“So… Anthony Stark.”

Anthony looked up from his bed, where he was enthusiastically downing a plate of breakfast. “Huh?”

Stephen bit his lip. “You’re Anthony Stark. The Anthony Stark.”

Stark swallowed his mouthful of toast and tapped his chin. “Last time I checked. What, needed to double check? Did you misplace my name tag? My patient file? Forget I revealed my secret identity to you?”

“I’ve seen your face in the newspaper enough to now fully realize it’s you. Can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier.”

Tony reached up to card his fingers through his scraggly mess of hair that was currently curling around his ears. “Really? Even looking like a bloody mess? Because I didn’t think my face was tha--”

“Anthony,” Strange cut him off firmly. He fished around the messy side table, searching for the nearly week-old newspaper he’d been reading again earlier, and took a deep breath. “Do you… have any idea what’s happened while you were… away?”

The wounded man in bed suddenly stopped chewing. “Beg pardon?”

Strange brushed off the paper from the table and carefully unfolded it, hesitating. “You’ve… you’ve been here, under my care, for almost a week now. But you were deemed missing for five months.” He handed the newspaper to him, tapping the bolded headline; it was the same article he’d been reading when the missing inventor showed up at his doorstep in the first place.

“Five…?” Anthony whispered, suddenly distant as he scanned over the article. His good eye blinked rapidly, trying to process, trying to take in everything. “Christ. I knew it was a while, but… five?”

“Almost to the day,” Stephen said quietly. “People have been searching for you since you went missing. The whole city was worried for you. No one… no one has any idea what became of you, or what happened, or if you’d come back.”

“Oh,” was the only noise Anthony seemed to be able to make.

Stephen let him scan over the article in silence for a while, taking small sips of tea from a spare mug and watching Anthony’s facial expressions morph and change until they crumpled into a mask of neutrality again.

“Do you see why I wanted to take you to a proper hospital now?” he asked after a while.

Anthony set the newspaper aside, his eye twitching slightly. “...yes, I understand why.”

“But you don’t wish to, still? There are so many people who could help you.”

Stark looked away, raising an eyebrow idly. “On the contrary, I believe you are the only one who can help me. I’m simply watching to see if my hypothesis is correct.”

“You… what? What do you mean? Do you… have extensive damage? Wounds I don’t know about? Anthony--”

“Please, that’s so stuffy,” Anthony said aimlessly, waving his good hand. “You can call me Tony. And those are some fascinating questions, but I would feel most comfortable answering them… another time.” His expression turned stony, but there was a hint of vulnerability in the pointed look he gave Strange.

Stephen tapped his fingers on the bedside table testily, weighing his options.

“Alright,” he sighed after a moment, conceding. “You are in desperate need of a bath anyway.”

“Please.”

* * *

 

Once the water in the bathroom had been run, the tub filled, a fresh outfit laid out on the side and Tony left to clean up, Stephen found himself wandering back into the library.

It was time to do some research.

By the time the grandfather clock down the hall chimed pleasantly, altering the house that it was now half past eleven o’clock, Stephen was elbow-deep in his personal archive of several years worth of newspapers, searching for anything that had to do with one Mister Tony Stark.

The oldest paper Strange could find concerning him was a yellowed, five-year-old snippet about some upstart inventor launching a showcase of his personal works. Several more from a year later chronicled his rising fame and wacky exploits and creations. A handful of other newspapers spent their precious pages detailing scandals and juicy secrets Stark was involved with, but there wasn’t much else about him personally. One page in an 1883 edition did mention a significant other, yet according to a paper from a few months later they separated. Really there was nothing, nothing deeper than surface level gossip. Christ, had the public really known Anthony Stark at all?

After another fifteen minutes of scanning, Strange _did_ manage to uncover a small article from 1884 detailing an experimental accident Stark had been involved in, but there was no mention anywhere of it resulting in loss of limb or eye, which definitely would have made for a popular and intriguing tale.

Stephen set the paper aside and frowned as he sifted through piles of delicate articles, desperately scanning any that so as much mentioned the roboticist. The year of 1885 was pretty quiet-- there were only a handful of mentions of Tony throughout the entire twelve months. Something about his eccentric villa he built himself with the help of an unnamed team, and something about his “personal romantic affairs”, whatever those were. Stephen decided he didn’t want to know. He shoved aside a stack of 1885 issues with a grunt, and reached for a handful of more recent ones from the beginning of this year.

Ah, at least there was more here. Some sort of slimy, yellow journalism newspaper started off the year with a bang-- some bull about how the great Anthony Stark was going broke on account of his lavish parties and massive donations to charity. Whether or not it was true, an article from a month later did confirm that Tony was working on some new project to up his revenue. Other newspapers confirmed the same thing, though none mentioned such in the way of specifics. One simply was captioned ‘Edward’s Secret Concoction?!’. Stephen rolled his eyes and set the bundle of papers back in their pile, getting disgruntled as he dove into a fresh month’s worth of news stories.

Finally, finally, ten minutes later, there was a paper with further details.

> _May 28, 1886-- Anthony Stark, under his alias Edward St. Amour, has confirmed that he is working on a brand new device set to be unveiled sometime later this year. But this time, it isn’t another eccentric automaton as intriguing as its creator-- no, Edward assures the public, this is something more._   
>  _“I’m not at liberty to share too many details just yet,” Stark announced to a crowd of over one thousand yesterday at noon. “But my goal here? To save lives. I’m positive this will be both a great financial and humanitarian success.”_   
>  _While most details of the project are kept under wraps, this ‘device’ is said to be of the medical kind. Though Stark has also confirmed it is not any type of medical tool, necessarily, he believes it could be of potential use in the field of medicine._   
>  _“I’m not particularly in the business of making stethoscopes,” Stark dismissed when asked whether or not this project was an improvement of typical existing technology. “This is something on more of a grand scale.”_   
>  _Regardless of what this project could be, it’s also been revealed that Stark is working closely with another production group, Patton and Co., to develop his device further. When asked about the company and his partnership with them, Stark had little comment. However, he wishes the public to know that working with another company will not impact his usual ‘trademark’ style._   
>  _We reached out to Patton and Co. for comment on the situation and development-- they state that working with a brilliant man such as Stark is both a privilege and a difficulty, and that while Mr. Stark has some truly headstrong and incredible ideas, a partnership between [them] going forwards will be best for him._   
>  _This story will receive updates as soon as any arrive._

Stephen leaned forwards curiously, wracking his brain to try and remember when this story had blown up. He must have gotten wind of it, being in the medical community… maybe it was about half a year ago? It seemed like so long ago by now. Vague memories of Christine and the other nurses gossiping with him during breaks about what Stark could possibly be developing slowly seeped into his mind. He could remember scoffing at all the foolish rumors-- after all, what could an eccentric inventor who’d only ever worked with machines know about the human body, or what “devices” the medical community needed?

Strange set the May newspaper aside, taking special care to not to lose it in the other stacks of paper. He wanted to re-examine that one after he went through the rest.

...which didn’t prove to be a much longer search. Stephen quickly realized that there was only one more mention of Stark between the May paper and the early July article that announced his missing status-- and this time it was nothing more than a small piece on the last page. A handful of sentences promising an upcoming date of the project reveal was accompanied by a picture of Tony posing with two other men, presumably the others he was working on the project with. Stephen traced a finger over the lone photo of Stark, marveling to himself. The Tony in the photo stood proud and tall, with a single eyebrow raised nonchalantly underneath his narrow-brimmed top hat, smirking effortlessly at the camera. Both eyes were intact. He stood with no limp that indicated a foreign limb. And… he looked happy. Arrogant, sure, but happy and curiously delighted as he stared at the camera, brushing some invisible speck of dust off the shoulder of his fitted suit, his freshly cropped hair curling effortlessly under his hat. Nothing like the man sleeping in Stephen’s spare room. Sure, he was recognizable, but… it was if some sort of spark in him had been snuffed out.

“Wow, doing some research?”

“Holy mother of--!” Stephen spun around in his chair, alarmed that he hadn’t heard someone come in. Tony was leaning against the shelf to his left, looking significantly cleaner and tidier in a fresh button-down and dark trousers. He leaned awkwardly on his non-prosthetic leg, as if worried he would tip over should he put weight on it.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you,” Tony apologized, raising a hand. “Just wondered where you’d gotten to.”

“I was, just--” Stephen gestured vaguely towards the stacks of newspapers.

“I can see that,” Tony said arily, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he plucked up the abandoned May 1886 paper. “Wow, you really… oh…”

Tony’s expression turned down, any semblance of a smile gone now. His face tightened slightly as he glanced at Stephen out of the corner of his eye. “You, uh, readin’ about me?”

“You’re my patient. I figured I should gather up as much information as I could.”

There was a beat of tense silence before Tony gave a jerky nod and rather robotically set the newspaper back down onto the desk.

“Ah. Me. Me and Patton. Good ‘ol Percival Patton. Dynamic duo of egotistical assholes.” Tony made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, and glaced out of the corner of his eye to Stephen. “That’s not… I’m not… like that anymore,” he added softly.

“What?”

“I mean… the carelessness, the haughty expression, the… arrogance.” Tony crossed his arms over his chest, curling into himself as he steadily held Stephen’s gaze. “I thought I knew everything. I thought I could save the world, be a hero. A rich hero.” He gave a dry laugh. “I was… I wasn’t a good person. But that’s not me. Not any more.”

“...no?”

“No.”

Tony’s face was a granite mask of stone, and yet still and calm as water. He seemed to be looking far off into some horizon line, into some deep pool of thought only he could see.

“Tony, if I may…” Stephen swallowed, his voice soft. “...what happened to you?”

There was a moment of silence as Tony’s eyes found their way to Stephen’s, holding his gaze almost curiously, as if truly seeing him for the first time. For the first time that week, Anthony Stark didn’t close himself off.

“They kidnapped me,” he murmured after a moment, solemn.

Stephen couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t already considered that possibility, but hearing Tony say it aloud still seemed to shock him deeply. The man standing above him seemed to notice his change in expression, and offered a tiny smile of consolation.

“Took me a while to figure out what had happened to me. I’m still… processing it.” He swayed slightly on his feet, his gaze growing distant again. “I’m… sorry for not explaining everything. But I didn’t-- I don’t-- want the truth out there yet. I don’t want the public to…” Tony trailed off, his face suddenly very pale.

“No, no, I understand, Tony.” Stephen pushed himself out of his chair. “Like I said before, you’re safe here in my home, and-- ah--!” he said sharply, reaching out to steady Tony as he swayed forwards again.

“Sorry. Little, little dizzy from walking down the hall,” Tony mumbled, steadying himself against Strange’s chest with one hand.

“It’s alright,” Stephen murmured soothingly, straightening up so he could support Tony’s back with his hand. “Lean against me, I’ll help you back to your room, yes?”

“Please.”

Doctor Strange carefully looped his other arm underneath Tony, who leaned into his side, exhausted from his short venture into the library. Stephen made sure he was steady on his feet again before taking a few cautious steps towards the doorway, checking on the continuing-to-pale roboticist every few feet. But after a moment, with a soft heave of brave breath, Tony wrapped his arm around Stephen’s neck and marched as best he could down the hall beside him.

He was resilient, Stephen would give him that.

But by the time the reached Stark’s bedside the man was breathing heavily, his cheeks drained of any color he’d had earlier.

“Anthony,” Stephen started, pausing as he helped to lower tony onto his mattress. “I need you to be honest with me.” The doctor straightened up, studying Tony sternly as the inventor settled himself back into bed. “You don’t look well. At the very least, this--” he swivelled his hands in circles, indicating Tony’s body in general, “--is too much to be just some head trauma and a broken wrist.”

“Mm,” Tony merely replied, trying and not succeeding to tug up the blankets that were trapped at the end of the mattress. He looked solemn again, quiet.

“Yeah,” he said after a long stretch of contemplative silence. He shifted, propping himself back into a sitting position. “...the people who took me seemed to have a thing for... hurting me. Sick bastards, they... t... yeah.”

Stephen’s face twisted up into a disgusted wince as he pulled back from the bed, his touch suddenly extremely light for fear of accidentally putting Tony in any kind of pain. Tony, taking notice, shook his head slightly and reached up to touch the back of Stephen’s hand. The doctor froze, eyes flickering from Anthony’s hand to his face and back. But after a moment of silence, something in him teetered over the edge, reached out to the soul resting in his spare bed. Strange gently laid his own hand over Tony’s, giving him a reassuring squeeze he hoped conveyed everything he could not say. The two men stayed still for several moments, until Strange leaned forwards again.

“I know it’s difficult,” he murmured, a spark of disgust at the very idea that someone would hurt someone like that still burning in his eyes. “But I should examine any other injuries you have, when you’re ready. I’m obligated by my position and my desire to do everything I can to heal you, and I don’t want to watch you waste away in my bed.”

A strange sort of smile made the corner of Tony’s lips curl up, as if he was finally getting to spill a secret he’d been holding close.

“Ah,” he murmured. “Well, about that—“

“I— what?”

Tony fidgeted slightly, then turned so that his back was facing Stephen. He reached back to grip the hem of his shirt, and pulled it upwards just enough to reveal a strip of tanned skin on his lower back. It was criss-crossed with lacerations of all kinds— some deep, some no more than mild scratches. But... _but they were all..._

“I’m grateful, Strange, but it seems that some of them may have healed.”

Stephen stared in wonder at the fresh, pink skin that stretched taut over every gash. They were, they had, healed over— every last one.

“How did-- how did this happen?” Stephen stuttered, unable to stop himself from reaching out to brush a delicate finger over the largest gash, which seemed to continue down past the hem of Tony’s pants. Tony winced slightly, but there was no redness or swelling or tenderness anywhere around the injuries. “I... I didn’t... I didn’t do anything, or give you anything to help, or— I— did you do this? Did...”

The man on the bed dropped the hem of his shirt, and brushed himself off. That wry smile of his was starting to make his eyes crinkle up pleasantly.

“No,” he said after a moment. “I haven’t done a thing. Merely been in your presence for the past week, that’s all.”

“But... that’s not fast enough for that kind of injury to recover on its own. That’s... do you... simply heal fast? I’m, I can’t—“

“Stephen,” Tony cut him off gently, using his first name for perhaps the first time. It sounded pleasant on his tongue, the way an angel’s name should sound. “I haven’t done anything. Listen—“ he gripped Stephen’s wrist loosely. “Haven’t you read the newspaper articles on yourself? You have a talent for curing the incurable, healing what shouldn’t be possible to heal. And yet, after scrounging through every written scrap of information I could find, much like I assume you were doing for me, I couldn’t find anything that differentiated you from any other doctor. No breakthrough treatments, vaccines, practices. You’re just... lucky with your unbroken streak of patients. Or so you think.”

The doctor’s eyes had narrowed into nervous slits. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you have a... penchant for healing. You’re a walking miracle cure. You, it’s as if you had some sort of... power. Magic.”

Stephen had half a mind to jerk his wrist from Tony’s grasp; perhaps the strain of sudden physical exertion had triggered some sort of delirium in him.

“I’ve heard this before. In tabloids, Mister Stark. I don’t believe in such nonsense.”

“You don’t?” Tony said lightly, unwrapping his fingers from around Stephen’s wrist. “You just witnessed something you can’t understand, and yet you don’t at least consider it a possible explanation?”

“That’s not an explanation, that’s some kind of, a— a fairy tale!” Stephen snapped, his patience draining quickly. “There has to be some sort of scientific explanation. Perhaps one of my colleagues could... could...”

“...could tell you I’m insane?” Tony murmured, cocking an eyebrow. His eyes were as calm as still pools of water again, that deadly serious, serene expression back on his face. “Perhaps. But, then again—” There was a slight movement as he reached into his pocket with his good hand and procured some kind of folded, worn piece of paper; Stephen started slightly as he felt it being pressed into the palm of his own hand. Anthony drew back from the doctor, shifting so that he could lay down again. “...if you’ve seen all the things I have over the past few months, perhaps you would be more inclined to believe in those fairytales.”

And without another word, Tony rolled over and went to sleep.


	4. Growing Closer

**Tony never bothered explaining what his cryptic comment or paper had been about, and Stephen tried his best to push down the rising anxiety and disbelief stirred up by their Saturday conversation.** And as morbidly curious as he was, he’d shoved the worn piece of paper into his bedside drawer and hadn’t looked at it since.

But if Strange was to be honest with himself, though, the following two and a half weeks were almost… pleasant. He’d forgotten what it was like to have another person in his home with him. And admittedly, the company of another soul was extremely comforting. It was nice, in a way, to hear Tony’s soft snores from down the hall as he slept. And even though at first it seemed like a chore to help Tony with his daily routine or to look after him, he began to look forward to helping him into the library so they could chatter back and forth and recommend their favorite books to one another. And there was even something blissfully domestic about making breakfast for someone other than himself, though it meant he couldn’t burn anything on accident any longer.

When he was feeling peppy enough to hobble into the kitchen on his mismatched legs (which were always carefully covered with a blanket or a robe or spare pair of pants), Tony liked to harp on Stephen about that.

“You make your toast black?!” he’d asked incredulously over a cup of Stephen’s healing tea, watching him flip over a slice of bread he was toasting over a pan on the stove.

“Oh, uh, I guess,” Stephen started, dropping the slice of bread back down. He frowned at the dark brown toast, not used to making food for someone else, or having them watch him do so. “Is that bad?”

Tony rolled his eyes, cracking an easy smile. “Well, good toast should be golden brown,” he explained with the air of a practiced chef as he plucked a spare slice of bread from the wooden cutting board. Stephen was privately relieved to see that that snarky, infectious grin came a little easier to Tony every day, and barely minded as the man gently nudged him aside with an elbow.

“Watch,” he explained, deftly flipping aside Stephen’s burnt slice. “You have to melt a little butter in the pan before you put in the bread. It’s even better if you toast bread in the same pan you cooked bacon or something else in, but something tells me you don’t have bacon.”

“I do not.”

“It was worth a try,” Tony shrugged, smiling again as he watched the small pad of butter he’d plopped in the center of the pan melt.

“What, do I look like the counter of the meat market?” Stephen asked indignantly, grinning a little in spite of himself.

“Actually, you look a little like the old owner of the butcher shop on third street,” Tony said idly, poking at his slice of toast as it sizzled and Stephen spluttered. “Okay, okay, now watch. Flip the toast up just a little, and when it looks as though it’s just starting to brown, turn it over. Viola! Tony’s perfect toast,” he announced proudly, gesturing to the perfectly golden-brown slice of toast as he flipped it over.

“Oh, wow, the great Edward St. Amour’s crowning achievement over us all-- perfect breakfast toast,” Stephen drawled, fetching Tony’s usual spare plate from the cupboard above them.

“At least _I_ can make toast.”

“At least _I_ have two legs.”

Tony winced, though his shoulders were shaking with repressed laughter as his lips twitched up. “Touché, my good doctor. Perhaps too soon, though.”

“My apologies,” Stephen chided, sharing a look with Tony as he picked up a corner of the toast and plopped it onto his plate. “I _can_ fry you some eggs, however, if you’re patient.”

“I’m _a_ patient, if that helps.”

Stephen groaned, shaking his head. “Can’t believe the amount of poor jokes you make. I should send you to the hospital just for those.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Stephen said, shooting Tony a reassuring look before turning away to fetch a few eggs from the opposite side of the kitchen.

Anthony leaned back against the counter, resting his weight on his good leg and tapping the knee of his prosthetic one. His dark eyes watched Stephen hum to himself as he turned back to the stove and cracked several eggs into the pan, watched the way he happily tapped his foot to the tune of whatever song was in his head. This was… nice, he reflected. It was nice to chatter away and joke and forget about the constant pain he was in. The very thought made him grimace slightly, an aching tremor shooting through the skin above his false limb as he shifted into a more comfortable position.

Stephen turned towards Tony again, a half-baked jest about eggs on his tongue, but the words died in his mouth as soon as he saw the man hunched over against the counter.

“Is everything alright?” the doctor asked quietly, his pale eyes studying the way Anthony cringed quietly in pain.

Tony leaned back against the cupboard, resting his cheek against the wooden shelves as he folded his arms. He hadn’t brought anything up since that Saturday a while back, but… perhaps it was time.

“My leg. It’s quite painful.”

“The… one you… lost?”

“Mhm.”

Stephen looked back down at the pan of eggs, flipping one over idly as his physician’s mind raced. “I don’t know what occured, but I would assume some sort of accident that warranted an amputation-- below the knee? You walk with a limp that would indicate you haven’t lost your whole leg,” he murmured, chancing another glance at Tony. His face had morphed back into that mask of calm stone, soft as a puddle of moonlight. “Who-- where and when did that occur? What doctor performed it? Perhaps the area was infected during the operation, and now there’s complications?”

Tony’s lips pressed together. “You could say that.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow, waiting for Tony to continue, to answer any of the other questions he’d posed. “And?”

After a long moment, Tony sighed. “And it wasn’t a surgeon, who, y’know, did it. Or another doctor. It was the… the same… people who took me.”

Stephen nodded, his face impassive. “Then most likely there’s an issue. That couldn’t have been performed in a sterile environment,” he said carefully, keeping his voice clinical instead of emotional. It seemed to keep Tony a little calmer, at least. “If the area is already inflamed, then the added pressure of using a prosthetic would be too much. I know it’s difficult, but in order for me to treat that and allow it to heal, perhaps it would be best to remove your lower leg for the time being?”

Somehow, Tony’s mouth pressed itself into a tighter line. “I… can’t.”

Stephen lifted the pan off the stove with a mildly irritated look. “I know you’re a stubborn man, Tony, but--”

“It’s not like that,” Tony blurted, his eyes widening. “I-- oh, just let me show you.”

“At least let me put the eggs down fir-- oh.”

The pan clattered onto the counter as Stephen froze, watching Tony hike up the right leg of his pants to reveal… something else he couldn’t begin to fathom.

Anthony Stark had a prosthetic leg, alright. But it was like none Stephen had ever seen before. It was exquisitely wrought out of what he thought to be a combination of copper and brass, and appeared so perfectly lifelike to a human limb -- down to even the perfectly opaque glass toenails-- that it almost took his breath away. A series of dark bolts and grates and wires running up the inner side of the shin rather ruined the realism, he had to admit, but it only entranced the doctor further. A tiny lightbulb sunk somewhere into the opposite side of the shin flickered as Tony moved his leg forwards, the elegant gold knee making a soft metallic noise as it unfolded outwards, each individually jointed toe unfurling slightly in a lazy stretch.

And yet, none of this was what made Stephen Strange’s sheer disbelief skyrocket. No, it was the fact that Tony’s prosthetic was not simply strapped or laced or secured onto the upper half of his remaining limb. It somehow, somehow, simply melded right into the flesh above his knee.

“How…?” he whispered, unable to manage anything else.

“The prosthetic was joined to what was left of my leg,” Tony mumbled, letting go of the hem of his pant leg. He pointed to what Stephen had assumed was a vein under his skin, but on closer inspection, was some kind of wire or metal trailing from the metal knee joint up through his leg. “It’s, uh, wired into me. It responds as a normal limb would, albeit perhaps a bit wonky. The movement still isn’t very smooth. I’d never attempted anything of this type before.”

“You… made this?” Stephen asked incredulously, hesitantly reaching out to touch the metal.

There was the barest glint of pride in Tony’s eyes, mixed with a look that conveyed he was desperately trying to repress something. “I did.” He paused. “But I didn’t join it to my leg. That was… someone else’s work, and I need you to help me. It’s… painful.”

Stephen’s shaking fingers lifted the leg of Tony’s pants again; he gave the skin above Tony’s metal limb the lightest of prods, only for the owner to hiss softly in response.

“Well,” the doctor managed, trying desperately to swallow his sheer disbelief and amazement. “it’s-- the-- the area where the metal and skin meet is definitely inflamed. It might be possible your body is rejecting the prosthetic, or there was some sort of infection or complication during surgery…” He trailed off, uneasy.

“...and?” Tony prompted quietly.

“And I’d have no clue how to fix that. I’ve never done anything like this, never seen anything even close to this. I can’t… I can’t take the risk, Tony.”

Tony’s face fell slightly, but he nodded in understanding. “Is there anything else you can do that’s less invasive? Safer?”

Stephen examined Tony’s leg again, absorbing as much information and detail as his stunned mind could. “I could definitely give you a series of antibiotics and an anti-inflammatory salve, perhaps? You’re still drinking the tea I give you every morning, yes?”

“Yep.”

“Good. If you’re in too much pain I can try to get some painkillers for you as well,” Stephen murmured, straightening up. “But for now, I think it might be best to keep your weight off it, and let me clean the area when you’re comfortable.”

“Alright,” Tony mumbled with a nod, looking somewhat downcast as he glanced towards Stephen out of the corner of his eye. He reached up to fiddle with his eyepatch anxiously, unsure if he should bring up what he was thinking.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Stephen continued, turning aside to wash his hands.

Anthony swallowed, folding his hands together in his usual nervous tic. “Actually. Yes. Have you… did you look over the paper I gave to you that Saturday a while back?”

Stephen’s shoulders visibly tensed up, his hands stilling in the bowl of water he was rinsing them in.

“No,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet, on edge. “Would it be… pertinent to this situation?”

“I think so. Perhaps I could explain it to you after you’ve had a chance to read it over?”

The doctor slowly lowered his hands back into the bowl of water, saying nothing for almost a full minute.

“Alright,” he finally murmured. “If you think it will help you. I’m… obligated to do all I can for a patient. And… I would do whatever I could to help you.” He looked over his shoulder at Tony, his face soft as he dried off his hands. “Anyhow, why don’t I help you into the library? We can eat breakfast in there, and I’ll do some research on anything that could help your leg, yes?”

Tony smiled a little, pushing himself back up into a fully standing position. “Sounds good, doc.”

“Give me just a moment, then.”


	5. Repairs

**The rest of the afternoon was cheerfully spent in the doctor’s library.**

After eating breakfast at his desk next to Anthony, Stephen spent the first hour amidst his bookshelves and dust, looking for anything he could find that might help him. He had shelves upon shelves of medical textbooks and the latest research and manuals and diagnostic books-- if there was anything in his library that could possibly help, he was determined to find it. And so the stacks of books and sheafs of paper in his arms grew higher and higher with each passing moment as he curiously grabbed anything that might be of interest, occasionally resulting in him having to take trips to his desk to set some of his materials down. Tony, meanwhile, was slouched quietly across Stephen’s desk, soaking up the morning sun rays and thumbing through a thick manual on some kind of mechanical jargon the doctor hadn’t even know he owned. And he must have found Strange’s stash of fountain pens and paper, because the sound of flipping pages was often accompanied by the scratching of a pen nib and soft cursing as Tony got accustomed to writing again with his freshly healed wrist.

Once in a while Strange would call across the room to ask Tony some questions or clarify any symptoms he was having, but for the most part, it was silent save for the turn of pages and soft breathing of the two of them.

At least, at first.

After an hour Stephen got bored of the repetitive nature of his task at hand, and Tony got chatty. And so Stephen’s hands began to slow from their frantic search for books and advice, preferring instead to lean against the shelves or page he was on and pretend to be looking for something as he listened to Tony talk. There was something oddly lulling and comforting about his voice; it was as if Stephen was listening to the ocean crash against the walls of his library.

“Did you know,” Tony mused from across the room as he scribbled something own on his sheet of parchment, “...all these textbooks and blueprints and mechanics call for the rarest damn things? Where am I supposed to find tungsten in New York?” Stephen could almost hear Tony’s eyes rolling as the mechanic turned the page, his toe tapping against the floor, keeping pace with his racing mind. The mind of an inventor, Stephen thought with a smile. Something about it made his chest feel warm.

“What, you didn’t try the general store on First Street?” Stephen called back teasingly, poking his head from out behind a shelf.

Tony scowled momentarily, but his dark eye lit up with excitement as he looked back down at his list. “No. But, could you find, uh--” he squinted, as if trying to read his own handwriting-- “lead, and some spare wire there?”

Stephen chuckled. “I mean, I really have no clue. Why? Would you like me to add that to the grocery list for the week?”

“I need to repair my leg,” Tony explained, finally looking up and cracking a smile upon seeing Stephen leaning out from behind his shelf. “If you’re setting about to fix my natural body, I’d better do my part and repair my robotics.”

“Oh!” Stephen hurried out from behind his shelf. “I didn’t even consider that, I’m so sorry. Please, let me know if you need anything and I’ll see what I can do to get it.”

“Unfortunately, my workshop no longer is within my reach or possession, but… I could probably scrounge up enough material and tools to make do, with your help.”

“Certainly. Anything I can provide you with right now?”

Tony frowned. “I could probably use some unconventional household materials in place of real materials… think you could lend me some stuff?”

“Name your necessities.”

“Actually,” Tony pushed himself to his feet, smiling again. “It might be better to simply go search them out? I need to stretch my legs… uh, leg, anyway.”

Stephen grinned, leaning forwards to help Tony up. “Then let’s begin our search.”

 

* * *

 

The evening hours were spent with Tony leaning against Stephen’s side as he hobbled around the house, excitedly seeking out anything that might be helpful for his repairs.

And, to Stephen’s surprise, the man was nothing but resourceful.

He’d managed to snag two spare light bulbs from under Stephen’s shelves (“I can definitely use the glass and filament in these”), a forgotten wrench under his sink, some kitchen utensil that could pass for a fine-tipped screwdriver, scraps of lead from an old and worn windowpane, a cluster of wires Stephen hadn’t even realized were frayed and broken (“so that’s why your lighting doesn’t work back here, doc”), a handful of mismatched screws and bolts, and a horde of other curious bits and bobs Tony assured him would all be put to good use.

“Hey doc--,” Tony piped up from his place on the floor the next morning as he spread out his collection of unconventional tools onto the hardwood by his side. “Could you stay with me while I do these repairs in case I need something?”

“I’ve never handled anything mechanical, or even remotely close to this nature,” Stephen murmured, bending down to watch as Tony hiked his pant leg up over his knee to reveal gleaming metal and angry red flesh below. “But I’d be happy to watch in case something goes wrong medically.”

Tony looked up at the doctor with his singular brown eye, cracking his easygoing smile. “Hm. Maybe that’s a good idea.” His fingers paused over the makeshift screwdriver. “...y’know, though, I can handle all the mechanics-- but my wrist is still a little delicate, I dunno if I can put it to too much use. Could you just lend me a hand, quite literally? Hold or hand things to me?”

Stephen lowered himself to the floor, his eyes crinkling up with a matching smile “Of course. Goodness, it’s been years since I was an assistant.”

Tony faked a gasp. “I was under the impression you were simply born a professional doctor! You spent time as a lowly assistant? How wrong was I!”

“Oh, be quiet.”

But, to be honest, it was sort of wonderful to sit by and watch Tony glow with concentration and purpose as he set about to his task. His hands worked quickly, flipping open panels and twisting wires with a delicate kind of precision Stephen had only seen in accomplished surgeons.

“Screwdriver?” Tony mumbled, holding out his good hand to Stephen.

“Here you go.”

Tony took it with a grateful look and turned to deftly unscrew a bolt just under his knee, his pupil a mere pinprick as he concentrated on working away a smooth panel on the backside of his shin. It popped away to reveal a slew of wires and a few chunks of eroded solder, making Tony wince slightly.

“Pliers--”

“On it.”

Stephen pressed them into Anthony’s waiting hand, his fingers lingering for a moment. Tony’s hand curled around his own, his skin warm, calloused, rough from years of working with metal and fire and tools, and paused. Without tearing his concentration away from his leg, the mechanic gave the doctor’s fingers a tender squeeze, and gently pried the pliers out of his grasp.

“Erm, here--” Tony said, coughing slightly as he cleared his throat of embarrassment. “--hold these wires aside while I clean the inside of this panel out.”

Stephen did as he was asked, carefully hooking his fingers around a small bundle of wires inside Tony’s leg and trying to ignore how curiously private and personal this felt.

“I’m sticking… my fingers… in your leg,” he mumbled, trying to remind himself that he’d had hundreds of other patients he’d operated on in a similar way. Though they weren’t awake. With metal legs. Or staring at him and asking him to certain tools for the operation.

“Right you are,” Tony mumbled back, sticking his tongue between his teeth as he dislodged a stray chunk of solder.

“Weird.”

“That’s life for you.”

Stephen chuckled, releasing the wires as Tony pulled away to grin at him and grab something else off the floor. And in that moment, Strange found it impossible not notice how his nose scrunched up a little when he laughed, the way the lines around his eyes crinkled merrily with each smile. What an easy face to get lost in.

“--starry-eyes, hey, back to Earth for a moment, could you-- ah shit, the oil line--.”

“Crap! Sorry, sorry--”

The rest of the repairs went relatively quickly, Stephen and Tony pressed shoulder to shoulder as they soldered and twisted and oiled and bolted everything back into place. Soon enough the last gilded panel snapped neatly back into place and Anthony set down his screwdriver, carefully testing out each jointed toe and the range of motion of his knee.

“All good?” Stephen asked, nudging the array of misfit tools into a pile.

“Mm, definitely better.” Tony pushed the screwdriver into the pile of other objects by Stephen’s side, rolling his shoulders and neck as he sat up straighter. “And hey, thank you for the help,” he said gratefully, studying his knee joint as it flexed.

“Well, I wasn’t about to say no.”

“Still.” Tony reached over to give Stephen’s hand a soft pat. “Thanks. You’re… you’re a good man, Stephen.” He swallowed. “I know I haven’t really said it, per say, but I’m just… I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me over the past month. So thank you. From the bottom of my…” he trailed off, a spark of some kind of distant, sad humor in his eyes.

“... from my heart,” he finished softly, tapping his chest.

“Of course, Tony. Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

They never did get to talk about the folded piece of paper still gathering dust in the top corner of Stephen’s bedside drawer.


	6. Nightmare

**Sometime in the early hours of the week afterwards, Stephen was woken to a bloodcurdling scream as he shot up in bed.**

“Hng?!”

Through bleary eyes and sleep-tainted ears the doctor could register… was that sobbing? From down the hall. Gasping cries.

“Tony?”

No reply.

No time to waste.

Stephen yanked his faded red bathrobe off the corner of his bed frame and was down the hall in five seconds flat.

“...Stark?”

 _Go._ Tie the robe closed. Knock on Tony’s door.

No response. Muffled sobs.

Stephen pushed the door open, thanking any higher beings that listened that it wasn’t locked from the inside.

“Tony—“

He was smack in the middle of his bed, curled up tight in the fetal position. One blanket was haphazardly tangled in his legs. His tear-soaked brown eye squinted up at Stephen, eyepatch askew, the soft light from the open door spilling gracefully over his face.

“S... st....” Anthony managed. His voice was raw as sandpaper.

Stephen fell easily into his medical mode.

“It’s just me, Doctor Strange,” he said clearly, bending over Tony, his hands fluttering worriedly as he tried to figure out what was wrong. “Can you hear me clearly? What’s wrong?”

“Noth... ‘m not—“

“Can you tell me what hurts? Point to it?”

“No, St—“

“Tony, I need—“

“Stephen.” Tony cut him off weakly, raising a hand in protest. “I’was jus... a nightmare. Just... a night—“ he took a shuddering sob.

“Oh, Christ, I—“ Stephen’s hands found Tony’s shoulders, still searching him fruitlessly for some kind of injury or hurt or ill. Just a nightmare. Just? “I’m so sorry, Tony, oh—“

Tony shook his head, and without further word, simply pressed his head against Stephen’s shoulder.

The doctor froze for a moment, surprised, unmoving. But he could feel Tony shivering against him, could feel his tears seeping into his thin robe, and didn't hesitate to quietly wrap his arms around the shaking man.

“Take some deep breaths,” he murmured to Tony. “Breathe. One, two, one two.”

“One—“ Tony sucked in a breath of air and choked it back out. “T-two—“

“Good,” Stephen murmured, rubbing Tony’s back. “It’s alright now. It was just a nightmare. An image your mind conjured. It’s not real.”

Tony managed a nod, seeming to curl up tighter into himself. One, two. One, two.

“You’re here in your bed in my spare room. You’re...” Stephen paused. “You’re home.”

“ ‘m home.”

“You are.”

“O-okay.”

Tony took a deep breath in, shuddering one more time before falling silent. One, two. One, two.

A minute of gentle silence passed, the mechanic simply holding tight to the doctor as they say awash in a pool of evening light.

Stephen broke the quiet after a moment. “You alright?”

“I’m alright,” came the small reply.

“...are you?”

Another pause.

“Would it help to talk about it? Your nightmare?”

Tony considered, moving to rest his chin on Strange’s shoulder. “Haven’t got anything to lose,” he mumbled after a minute.

“I’m here to listen, then.”

Anthony Stark felt smaller than he ever had before as he sucked in another shaking breath.

“It was... I had a dream about the past half year.”

“Yeah?”

“Y-yeah. About the people who, who...”

“You don’t have to say it, I know.”

“Them, then.” Tony swallowed. “About what they did to me.”

Stephen’s hand paused on Tony’s back. “Did to you?”

The thin-lipped expression on Tony’s face was hollow, haunting. “Mhm. I... guess I haven’t really told you... everything.”

Stephen traced a gentle circle over Tony’s shoulders. “Do you want to?”

“I...I should.”

“Then I’m here, listening.”

Tony swallowed, considering pulling away to speak to Stephen’s face, but there was something that felt much more comforting and safe about staying hidden in his shoulder.

“A... what happened was... there was a group, I was working with, on a project,” he mumbled, beginning at the very start. “The... with Patton and Co.”

Stephen inhaled softly. “I remember reading about them in the papers. You mentioned them—“

“Them,” Tony whispered, cutting Stephen off with a sort of biting venom in his voice. “At first things were great. We had a promise. But, the man I was working with, Percival, Percival Patton, he started... slowly disagreeing with me. Cautioning me. Fighting with me late into the night. But I... I kept working anyway. I was eager and blind and an idiot, and I pushed the project forward too fast. Threw caution to the wind. And, and he, when he got fed up, he sent... sent some of his proxies to take me from my home.”

One, two, one, two.

“This... thing we were working on. It was a medical device, a sort of... heart aid. Meant to keep the heart stable and pumping for as long as possible. It would be a breakthrough— a brilliant device, so I thought. But we hadn’t tested it. I was sure it would be fine. None of my human-compatible creations or machines had ever failed me before. But Percival wanted to test on... patients. People. I knew the risks could have rewards, but... there was a moral line, using innocent people as test subjects, I...” Anthony shivered violently. “I knew it might prevent failures or complications with the machines, in the devices, but the way he talked about trials...” Tony’s voice turned low, haunted. “Frankly scared me.”

“So he, he brought me to his own workshops by force. Told me he was tired of whatever I was trying to waffle around. Told me I didn’t care about what my technology did after it left my hands, just...” Tony’s breath hitched. “Just what it cost me.”

Stephen bit his lip, his hand shaking as he stroked Anthony’s shoulder. “...was that true?”

“I was selfish,” Tony admitted. “All I cared about was myself and my machines and my money.” He paused, eye twitching against the doctor’s shoulder. “I could have been better. I could have done so much better. But this man... he... after that, he took me to see the tests he was conducting. On... real patients. He had volunteers there he’d managed to scrounge up. They were… people from asylums, cases from the hospital deemed to be unfixable, others that were… well. Unique. But anyway. The heart device? It was working.”

Strange’s expression was tense, disgusted with what he was hearing. “...but?”

“He wanted me to test it out. Myself. Make me prove I trusted my machines. That I didn’t create them to harm. That he could market them as successful, with even the great Edward St. Amour having used one! Twisted bastard.”

“Oh.”

Tony made a noise in the back of his throat. “It wasn’t like I had much of a choice. They were holding me there by force. So I... gave in. They used me as a lab rat. And... it was fine. I was fine. It worked.”

“I wouldn’t doubt your creations would.”

“That wasn’t the problem,” Tony whispered bitingly, words turning to liquid venom again, and Stephen went quiet.

“They kept me there for a week while Percival was doing business with another company. Pitching our... well, his, he began claiming it as his own— device. They were blown away. Offered an... outstanding chunk of money for the design. And... told him there’d be even more if he had any other medical device ideas.”

Stephen sucked in a breath, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fall in place. A knot of dread began forming in his stomach as he listened to Tony, already suspecting— and fearing— where this story was going.

“So he turned to me that night. Told me I wasn’t leaving until I helped him design more... more... things.” Tony shuddered with considerable force, his voice inching higher. “He had... his ideas... they were...”

“...?”

“...horrible. Twisted.” There was a scratchy huff of breath from somewhere nestled in Stephen’s shoulder. “The only one I conceded that might work was... was a replacement limb, a robotic prosthetic, that would be implanted into the patient.”

“...oh, oh hell, Tony...”

“Yeah, you know where this is going,” Anthony admitted. “So he kept me there, forced me to design and tack together prototype after prototype. And he... still needed patients, test subjects, so...” he trembled, trying to catch his breath, and mimed a slicing motion just below his knee.

“He had another man there, a dark-haired patient, he... he’d already been wounded, was taken for experimental treatment. I built him a silver arm. And I never... I never saw him again. He...” A sob hitched in Tony’s throat, and Stephen hurriedly wrapped him in a tighter embrace, one hand held protectively over the back of his neck. The doctor squeezed him tight, feeling as if the room was spinning. Oh. Everything was beginning to make sense. Oh. Oh—

“Once I’d recovered, Percival simply kept giving me more ideas, more prototypes to build, more pressure to work under. He had this, this idea for a replacement— an augmented, moreso— eye, that sort of worked like a... a telescope. I told him it could never work, but...”

Tony pulled himself away from Stephen’s arms, and reached up towards his head. Realizing what was about to happen, the doctor reached for his wrists, trying to tell him he didn’t have to—

Too late.

Tony untied his eyepatch and let it fall away. Underneath there was an... eye, of sorts. It looked vaguely like a thin copper tube had been shoved right into his eye socket without regard for his true eye at all. It appeared that several different lenses rested inside the tube, movable via various latches and levers and gears on the outside of the tube. The skin around it was puckered and raised where it met the metal, his eyebrow barely resting above the intense scar tissue, his upper cheek below it a wreck. It was beautiful and terrible and looked as though it put Tony in incredible amounts of pain.

“Breathtaking, I know.” Tony rubbed the skin of his twisted cheekbone absentmindedly, his expression pained. “At least I was the only one who got this.” A note of sarcasm began to leak into his voice. “But Percival decided to stop with mere replacements after that. Oh no, that wouldn’t be enough. He wanted more. He wanted to frankenstein humans into something greater... with my unwilling help.”

“I can’t... I can’t believe...”

“You think I did?” Tony asked quietly. “He tried… he tried to put wings on another man. Some shell-shocked army man, a soldier who came to him for help, and—“ Tony closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, trying to shake the memories. “I couldn’t bear it any longer. I would no longer be a tool of his maniac schemes. So I tried to leave. I tried to escape. I tried to run with what little I had. And I failed. They caught me, pulled me back. Took me back to Percival. And he... he told me how sweet it was that my heart was so pure. But that... that he needed me still. And that it was time for that heart to be replaced.”

“You’re not... that’s... that...”

“If you’re wondering if his words were a metaphor…”

Tony reached down, his somehow steady hands calmly undoing the top few buttons of his shirt. And Stephen’s lingering voice faltered to a deadened whisper, his lips forming silent words as he tried to process what he was seeing.

Stephen Strange should not be surprised by now, should probably not be shocked at this point, but there was… something, some... _thing_ embedded in Tony’s chest. A fist-sized… machine, Stephen realized, sunken in between Tony’s pecs where his heart ought to be, secured around the edges by small bolts that seemed to be rooted deep. Some kind of... hinged, clear glass door or cover, perhaps, shielded the outside of the thing, showing off the mess of gears and wires and springs and tiny, fine pipes encased in the object. Stephen inhaled sharply and scooted back a few feet as some kind of… light source suddenly flickered inside of it, making Tony’s chest glow softly. It continued whirring away a moment later, clicking mechanically as Tony shifted backwards as well, obviously on edge at having his chest revealed.

“What… what in the name of heaven is… is that?” Stephen whispered, eyes wide.

“It’s… my heart. And I’ve decided to trust you with it.”

“You weren’t kidding, then.”

“I was not.”

Stephen shifted forward, his eyes flickering between Tony and his heart as he slowly reached up one hand. “I... may I?” he asked softly.

Tony stayed still for a moment, considering, then nodded slightly.

Stephen stretched his fingers out, gently touching the area around Tony’s heart. Like his eye, the skin there was puckered and warped. Scars both small and large ringed the strange golden heart as it whirred away softly, the glow inside of it flickering from time to time as Stephen’s fingers brushed over it. It was… something else.

“Does it… hurt? Any of it?”

“Horribly so.”

Stephen’s expression crumpled slightly as he pulled away, feeling helpless. “I’m so sorry, Tony. For everything that happened. For the pain.” He clasped his hands together, desperate. “What can I do for you? Do the painkillers I have not work enough?”

Tony bit his lip. “Not… enough, no.” He hesitated. “...you… never looked at that piece of paper I gave you, did you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...did you catch the references to Bucky and Sam?


	7. Acceptance

**Stephen froze at the question Tony had asked.**

“...no, I didn’t,” he whispered, a flicker of shame coloring his pale cheeks.

Tony made a soft noise. “That’s alright. Better I explain now.” He shrugged his shirt back on, concentrating on the buttons as he did them up instead of looking Stephen in the eyes. “I… Percival, Patton, the company leader, he was the one who did all that. But in the early weeks I was there, he had an… associate, I guess you could say, who was working alongside him. Ultre. Theodore Ultre.”  
There was a soft noise of something mechanical clicking as Tony straightened back up, settling back down for the rest of his story.

“At first I thought he was a doctor, come to help Patton carry out all his bizarre body modifications and replacements. And… that was what he did, but it became clear quite fast that he was no practiced doctor. No… instead he was trying to practice some sort of… healing arts.” Tony gave a sarcastic huff of laughter. “I thought he was insane, the way he talked about the arcane and magical medicine. That was, until I saw him working out of the book he kept.” He shivered. “I’ll never forget it. He was desperately trying to… I think, heal a wound of another patient there. I’d seen him attempting the same thing dozens of times before, with no success. But this time… this time he laid his hands on the man, and when he pulled them away, the wound was merely a pink scar on his skin.”

Tony wrapped his arms around himself, bringing his bare legs up to his chest. “It was sporadic, when it actually worked. I think he was convinced he had some sort of innate healing ability, because he always went on about how only certain people were gifted with the power to heal. Sure didn’t seem like he was to me. And then…” Tony sucked in a breath, and Stephen reached out to gently place his hand on top of his. “He started purposely inflicting wounds on the patients when Percival’s back was turned. So he could practice, I guess. Not that it actually seemed to get him to improve.” Tony rested his chin on top of his knees. “Remember all those gashes on my back? Most of those were from him. He only ever managed to heal a couple.”

Stephen gave Tony’s hand a sharp squeeze.

“Percival found out pretty fast after that. Didn’t like that he was sharing lab rats, I guess.” He gave another dry laugh. “Theo got kicked out of his workshop pretty fast after that. But… not before I snatched a couple pages from his book.”

“Is… is that what you gave me? Are those folded pages… my folded paper?”

Tony nodded. “Uh huh. I… I don’t know what I was thinking when I took them. Maybe that I could heal myself, the other patients, use it for good, if it actually worked?” Tony shook his head. “Turns out I have no healing talent either. I didn’t take it to any other patients, for fear that would be the final thing that would drive them mad in that hellscape. But I took them with me when I finally escaped, hoping that perhaps they could help at some point. I knew my body was rejecting Percival’s inventions, I knew I never healed right without proper medical care there. And when I was half dead and dragging myself through the streets of New York, I… saw your name. On an advert in a newspaper that had blown away in the wind.”

Tony smiled sadly. “I’d heard about you. Of all your medical miracles, how you cured every single patient that came to you. And in my delirious state I thought... I thought that if anyone could help me, it would be you. I couldn’t possibly show up at, at some regular hospital, you know? So I crawled my way to your place, burned, in agony, half drowned in the rain. All along with that paper in my pocket, wondering if it was true, or if I’d just dreamed it all up.”

Stephen pulled back slightly, solemnly quiet, as if he was still trying to comprehend everything.

“I... think I understand. Just... wait here a moment, okay? I’ll. I’m. I’m gonna go get it. The pages.”

Tony’s gaze grew soft, afraid, but there was something else there. Some small spark of... hope. He nodded.

“Okay.”

Stephen edged off the bed and out the door, his robe flapping out behind him like some sort of fabric flames. Tony watched him go, drawing his knees further up into his chest as the doctor vanished down the hall, descending back into his thoughts and hazy memories as the room became silent again.

The fear. The workshop. The other patients. He’d been afraid, he’d been hurt, and he’d done nothing. But there was nothing he could have done. Right? Right...?

Footsteps echoed back down the hall towards the bedroom, and a moment later Stephen’s face popped back into view.

“Alright,” he announced, tucking his robe back around himself as he held up his hand, the folded paper clutched between his fingers.

Tony sat up straighter, holding out his own hand. “Here. Let’s read them together. I... think I can understand them, a little.”

Stephen’s face was still drawn, skeptical, but after a moment’s hesitation he sat back down on the mattress beside Tony. “...if you say so.”

He drew in a breath, and without further word unfolded the papers. They appeared to be three that had been stacked on top of one another, folded so they appeared to be one; each crinkled softly as they were carefully pulled apart, all of them slightly stuck together and distressed from rain and fire and damage from living outside of the protections of a book.

Stephen frowned as he looked each one over. The first had clearly been waterlogged, and though the ink was smeared in places, it was still mostly readable. The second was entirely intact, but the last page had a large chunk missing from the side, as though it had been lost when it was hastily ripped from its bindings.

“I remember the first page was an introduction of sorts,” Tony murmured, pointing to the top page that was labeled in bold as ‘The Healer’s Guide’. “The rest... I don’t know. They never made any sense to me. It was like... reading a foreign language. I never could understand the symbols or words or... anything, really.”

Stephen’s eyebrows pushed together as he picked up the first page, scanning it over with sharp green eyes.

“This...” he whispered tentatively. “Sounds like utter nonsense. And yet...”

He squinted, running a finger over a few lines of smeared text. “This feel familiar. It’s taking about... innate healing, how some are gifted, how others seem to be miraculously healed by them, even if they don’t do anything. That one can channel that.”

“Precisely why I sought you out. It sounded like you.”

“It does,” Stephen breathed, his pupils going almost as wide as the full moon that was beginning to set out the window. “Huh...”

Tony gently nudged the next page into Stephen’s hand. “Maybe you can understand what I couldn’t?”

“Maybe. I can’t promise anything. But...”

The doctor picked up the page and smoothed it over, shaking it out slightly before bringing it closer to read.

And the room suddenly became very quiet, save for Tony’s soft breathing.

“Stephen?” Tony asked after a moment.

There was no reply from Strange. He seemed entranced by the lettering on the page, his eyes almost glowing softly as he read.

Another minute passed before Tony gently shook Stephen’s wrist.

“Hey, Doc—“

“Tony,” Stephen simply intoned, his voice calm— almost strangely so.

“Can you understand it? Does it make sense? Do you think—“

Stephen turned towards Tony, his eyes glowing a luminescent silver in the slowly lightening room.

“That scrape on your wrist you got yesterday repairing your leg. Show me.”

Tony blinked in surprise, but obediently held out his arm. Stephen took his wrist into gentle hands, carefully touching the purpled scrape on the very bottom of his forearm.

“Take a deep breath.”

“Stephen, what are you—“

“Please, Tony,” Stephen whispered, a hint of his old warbling strain under the new calmness of his voice.

Tony hesitated, but took a deep breath in after a moment. Stephen’s long fingers wrapped carefully around his wrist as he closed his eyes, lowering his head slightly, and breathed out.

“Ah—!” Tony started in surprise, his wrist suddenly feeling tingly, warm, as though a gentle electric current had been run through it. He jerked out of the doctor’s grasp, rubbing his arm, and froze.

His scrape was gone.

“It... did it…?”

Stephen took a sharp breath in as he watched Tony rub his forearm. “It worked,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering open, back to their normal dull green. “It...”

“Stephen, that’s...” Tony’s mouth tried to form words, to no avail.

The doctor stared down at his hands in wonder. “I can... heal. I can...”

Tony’s eyes widened. “Can you... do you think you could really... fix my body? With that?”

Stephen’s brows furrowed. “I... don’t know. I don’t know. I just read the first half of the page, it was explaining how to channel your... your ability, to heal basic things, I...” he curled and uncurled his hands, breathless. “I need to read more. Research more. But.” He looked up at Tony as though someone had told him a new color had been discovered. “I was in disbelief before, but... I think I could help you, Tony. I could do... so much, for... I don’t even know. But I could heal your pain. I could... I could...”

Tony dared to let himself smile just a little, dared to feel just a little hope. “Whoa, slow down. It’s okay. Get... get used to all this first.”

Stephen nodded, his face suddenly anxious. “Y-yeah.” He folded his arms, tucking his hands into his sides. A second later he pulled them out again, eyes glued to the backs of his fingers as though they might shoot sparks at any given moment.

Tony cracked another smile and carefully settled his hands on top of Stephen’s, his touch soft. The doctor looked up at him, his breath hitching, his expression changing from one emotion to the next all at once. After a moment turned his hands over so that their palms pressed against each other’s, and gently knitted their fingers together with a squeeze.

“I can’t... what am I going to do, Tony? I can’t go back to the hospital. I can’t show this to the whole world. I’d be called insane. I’d be taken by the government. How am I going to...”

“Hey,” Tony whispered, clutching Stephen’s hands tight. “I felt the same way when I crawled out of that workshop. Now that I’m here, and safe, I wouldn’t dare to venture outside looking like some kind of human experiment. And how could I go to a hospital with robotic limbs?” His thumbs brushed gentle circles over Strange’s fingers. “But we’re safe here, just like you’ve always said. We’ll figure it out.”

Stephen held Tony’s gaze for a long time, green staring into brown and glassy metal. His eyes were full of sorrow and terror and curiosity and burning magic— and yet somewhere in the sea of emotion, there too was peace. Understanding.

“A sorcerer and a cyborg. An unlikely duo,” he mumbled, a bemused laugh bubbling through his lips.

Tony had to chuckle at the sheer disbelief of it all. “When you put it that way, anything seems possible. We’ll figure something out. We always have so far, right?”

“Of course we will.”


	8. Sorcerer and Cyborg

**Stephen Strange spent the next two weeks stumbling through a crash-course in trying to figure out his newfound powers.**

The pages Tony had given him (he’d taken to nicknaming them ‘the guidebook’) mentioned that sheer, uncontrolled power tended to seep from a healer out into the world around them, and the key to successful healing was to harness that. He figured that’s how he’d accidentally healed Tony-- not to mention his dozens of patients before that-- and once he’d read and researched and meditated on it, he could feel the power running through his fingers, thrumming through his veins. But trying to control that magic? Completely different story.

Not to mention that the guidebook didn’t really mention what would happen, or give particular details on any effects that should happen, so Stephen tended to take himself by surprise.

For instance, the other morning Tony-- grumbly but gracious-- had let Stephen try to heal some of the swelling and tenderness around his eye. And perhaps the doctor put a bit too much giddy effort into attempt, because orange sparks flew from his fingers the moment he closed his eyes and did his best to pull from the energy in his veins.

“Sorry, sorry!” he’d cried as Tony shrieked, trying to shield himself from the flecks of magic falling around his face.

They were, of course, harmless in the end. And the swelling around Tony’s telescopic eye went down significantly; even the scars paled slightly in comparison to how angry and red they had been before. It left both of them proud, in the end, and that was good enough for them both.

Strangely, the more Stephen allowed himself to feel and breathe and plunge into his abilities, the more alive and… somehow, human, he became. He felt as though he’d been dreaming in shades of grey and dismal sameness his whole life-- and someone had finally woken him from his strange, twilight slumber. Colors were more vibrant, sounds became a symphony, and life became an unending source of thrilling exquisiteness.

And Tony? Tony was a beacon of it all. He made every day beautiful in its own way, though Stephen was... starting to suspect that wasn’t magic.

Something about him had changed too, though, since their midnight talk-slash-revelation. He carried himself differently. With more confidence, perhaps, or simply less fear. Anthony Stark lounged back at the dining table with his metal leg propped up now, much to Stephen’s dismay-- but there was something about the mischievous delight with which Tony felt free to show off his robotics that never allowed Stephen to carry through with his empty threats of kicking him out of the kitchen. And the morning after his nightmare, he’d carefully untied his eyepatch, set it on his nightstand, and had never put it back on since. And there were times he left his shirt unbuttoned now, his glowing heart nestled softly in between layers of fabric, ticking away in time with the grandfather clock and Stephen’s eye-shaped watch deep in his pockets.

After Stephen got somewhat more acquainted with his powers, he began to try in sporadic attempts to heal Tony. And to be honest, it was better than anything he’d tried for him before, but it was slow going. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it barely did, and sometimes it did little more than produce a lively shower of fiery sparks. And even when it seemed he was beginning to heal more consistently, Stephen would rather be cautious and heal in several stages rather than fuck something up big time.

But every evening when it was time for Stephen to place his hands over Tony’s heart and channel every drop of healing magic he could into him, he got a little more of himself back. And each night Tony got back up a little lighter, a little more pain free. Happier.

And day to day life? It felt better, but it still felt… disconnected. Not lonely, but… too quiet. There were too few people to lament about the fact that you accidentally turned your hands orange or that you got a bug stuck in one lens of your robotic eye. As much comfort as the two found in their embraces of one another, it didn’t erase the fact that it was, well… the two of them.

It weighed heavy on Stephen’s mind.

“Hey, Tony,” he spoke up one evening as they sat in the library, Tony fiddling with a prototype new lens for his eye, Stephen absorbed in his guidebook again.

“Mhm?”

“You said… there were other patients in that workshop alongside you, right? Others like you? Other… unique cases?”

The tip of Tony’s tongue stuck out between his teeth as he nodded, not looking up from his work. “...mhm?”

“What if… could we… rescue them?”

Tony’s face remained neutral, but something in his eye became stone cold. “That wouldn’t be possible.”

“Why? Too dangerous? I’ve been thinking, and--”

Tony raised his hand, his expressioned pained. “I mean, it wouldn’t be possible because the workshop no longer exists, Stephen.”

“...what?”

“When I escaped,” the inventor explained, sitting back now, “I… created a diversion by setting the place alight. Easy enough to blame it on a candle left burning if I was caught, and easy enough to slip away in the confusion of a fire.” He ran a hand through his hair, weary. “It burnt to the ground. I read about it in a newspaper you left by my bedside a month ago, when I was too weak to get up.”

“You’re… you’re serious?” Stephen whispered, his heart falling.

“I wouldn’t lie about something like that,” Tony murmured.

Stephen bowed his head. “You don’t think there’s… anything left? Any more of this… book? Any patients?”

Tony sighed, air hissing out through his nose in a tired way. “There wasn’t much information in the article I read.” He set the delicate, gold-rimmed lens down on the desk by his side. “I suppose we could… go see the ruin ourselves, poke around if we’re careful. If it’s important to you, Steph.”

“I…” Stephen took a deep breath. “It is. And…” he paused. “Maybe it might be good for you too? To have some closure?”

Tony tilted his head to the side, contemplating. “Maybe,” he said softly. “...perhaps it’s worth the risk.”

“Regardless, I think it’s time we got out of the house anyways.”

Tony cracked a smile as he pushed himself out of his chair, politely offering out an arm to Stephen. “Y’know? I must agree.”

 

* * *

 

Two days of prep and a short train ride later, Tony and Stephen were striding side-by-side towards an immense plot of blackened, soot-coated land just outside of the city.

“This is it?” Stephen asked in a whisper-soft voice, glancing around to make sure no one else was within sight or earshot.

“This is it,” Tony affirmed. He gently pulled Stephen down what must have once been a gravel drive leading to the building, but was now a meandering, molten, rocky path ending in a pile of ash.

“The papers were right,” Stephen mumbled with a hint of disappointment, scanning the ruins. “There really isn’t much left.”

And there wasn’t. The shell of a building was still sort of there— at least, the foundation and some charred brickwork was, along with a handful of blackened beams, sticking up like lone sentries in a sea of smolder. A light dusting of snow blanketed the land, as if someone had spilled a pinch of flour over the ruins.

“There’s a lot of rubble,” Tony pointed out, clambering over a few charred pieces of wood to get a better look. Twisted, half melted bits of metal and what must have once been machines poked out of the ash here and there, glimmering in the cold noon sun. “Maybe there’s… something?”

Stephen glanced from Tony to the blackened wreck before them. “Let’s go see.”

They spent a good hour and a half picking through the acrid, ashy rubble, scrounging through every reachable place they could. Tony had, unfortunately, been right— there wasn’t much left. Nothing but ash and snow and shards of what might have once been windows. They did manage to pluck a handful of tarnished objects out of the ruins— a couple coins, a singed notebook with half the pages burned away, something that had perhaps been a prototype for an arm but was now merely twisted slag, a soot-blackened page Stephen swore looked close to the rest of the guidebook’s pages. Tony dusted off a lump of contorted silver wire he swore were the frames of Percival’s glasses, but other than that, there was no sign of anyone who’d been inside the building, either.

Tony eventually quit searching and simply sat in the middle of the ruin, content to simply close his eyes and lose himself in his thoughts and memories. There was something darkly satisfying about seeing the workshop having been burned to its foundations, but something… melancholy about it as well. The place still dripped with death and horror, the only difference being that a flock of crows had taken up residence in place of a flock of innocent humans. It was… a lot to take it.

Eventually Stephen gave up his own search and went to sit beside Tony, a stray raven hopping curiously after him with a soft qork. The doctor waved it away with a bemused smile, having half a mind to leave some crumbs for the fearless birds, and reached over to give Tony’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. The roboticist startled slightly, but gave a quiet smile in thanks and closed his eyes again.

They talked for a long while after, Stephen content to listen to Tony’s stream of conscious, Tony simply happy to listen to Stephen’s gentle breath and warm voice floating on the crisp winter breeze. There was something they’d both missed about the sharp sting of cold air and sitting under the vast expanse of a clouded sky.

The air grew still and quiet after a while, however, their thudding heartbeats and the sound of wings the only noises to disturb the silence.

“What do you think happened to everyone? The patients?” Stephen asked quietly, fixing his gaze on the way the afternoon light glittered off the rubble and ice as he rested on a fallen beam.

Tony leaned on the beam next to Stephen; he could feel his warmth even through his overcoat, and it was somehow soothing, somehow comforting in this strange sooty hellscape.

“I told them all to run. Tried to give them all a warning before… before the place burned,” Tony murmured, his breath misting lightly against the air. He tugged the scarf he’d pulled over his mechanical eye lower. “If fate was with them, they’ll have gotten out. Percival, though. He was twisted and gone by the time his workshop was taken by the flames. He… he would’ve stayed with his creations ‘til the bitter end, I think, still trying to play god.”

Stephen nodded, something softening in his eyes. He kicked a piece of rubble aside with the toe of his boot, his free hand crawling up to curiously play with the buttons of his vest. “Do you… do you think they’re all out there somewhere? Hiding in the shadows, like us?”

Tony’s mouth curved up just a little as he reached up to take Stephen’s hand in his own. “Maybe. It’s entirely possible.”

“Tony,” Stephen breathed. “What if… what if we could find them? We could... band together.”

A singular soft brown eye settled on the horizon as Tony rubbed his chin with his free hand. “That… doesn’t sound like an easy task. Those who don’t want to be found…” He trailed off.

“ ‘s true,” Stephen admitted, pushing the toe of his boot into a pile of snow as his eyes joined Tony’s on the horizon. “But… we could offer care. Medical help, companionship, a… a kind of home.” Stephen turned to Tony, his eyes alight with that silver beauty again. “My home, I would happily turn it into a… a sanctuary for anyone like us. A… sanctum.” He paused, looking over cautiously. “You and I, we’ve got to stick together. But if anyone else is out there like us… well, what do you think?”

Tony’s eye crinkled up into a smile. “I think—” he hesitated, then leaned over, gently cupping Stephen’s cheek with his free hand, “—that you have the purest heart of any man I’ve had the pleasure of knowing, Stephen Strange.”

He leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Stephen’s forehead, the gesture innocently sweet and gentle in nature. Stephen’s cheeks flushed lightly and Tony chuckled, tapping his thumb against the sorcerer’s jaw.

“If anyone has properly earned the title of doctor, it would be you,” he continued softly. “You’ve cared for me for nearly two months now. You’ve cared for every patient you’ve ever had. And, if you chose to do so—” Tony paused to tuck a stray curl of hair out of the way of Stephen’s face. “I would help you to care for whoever else we can find.” He smiled. “A sanctum, you say? I like the sound of that.”

Stephen reached up to touch Tony’s hand, his fingers shaking ever so slightly from the power thrumming just below his skin. “A sanctum. Sanctum, hmm… rather latin-sounding… Sanctum Sanctorum?”

“I like the ring of that,” Tony laughed softly. “Whatever you wish to call it, it’s a safehouse now. A home.”

Stephen echoed, a smile making the corners of his mouth curl up. “It is now.”

The doctor brushed himself off after another moment, pulling away slightly in order to push himself back up straight.

“It’s been a day,” he murmured, putting one hand on the beam behind him as he got to his feet. “I think I’d rather like to go home myself. You?” he asked, offering his free hand to the man still sitting in the snowy ash.

Tony grinned as he looked up and took Stephen's hand, gripping it with that familiar, comfortable weight of his.

“Let’s go home.”


End file.
